


A Walk To Remember

by DarkkBluee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gratuitously Hot Voldemort, Harry bluffs like a Slytherin, Hermione is the best, M/M, Political Ideology, quotes to remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:05:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19160833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkkBluee/pseuds/DarkkBluee
Summary: Prompt: Harry Potter chances upon an injured Voldemort and nurses him to health.





	A Walk To Remember

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arualiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arualiaa/gifts), [DesertWaterfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertWaterfall/gifts), [VannahBananah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VannahBananah/gifts), [ILoveWater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ILoveWater/gifts).



> I started this fic as a fluffy 'Harry helps hurt Voldemort and they hit it off', got turned to political ideology and then a full AU.  
> Thanks to Aru (whose initial idea this was), ILoveWater, VannahSkye and oopal, discussing with whom is how this AU started. 
> 
> Please keep in mind: I've tried to double check and keep my facts straight, but if you notice any discrepancies (as political ideology and forms of governance is not something I've read extensively on), please let me know.
> 
> Also, Thank you guys (Red, Essa, Hei, Mendacium - dulce) for the weekly-workshop beta. This is the improved version written after it. And Thanks Luva, for the very thorough beta of the improved version! ♥ I don't know what I'd have done without you 😭

It is a hot summer day in Little Whinging, and Harry is at a small cafe near Privet Drive. He sips his cold brew, enjoying this rare moment of peace, and looks out of the window, observing the people passing by. He’s going to go on a Horcrux hunt after the summer is over, so now is the only time he can relax for the year.

 

“Oh,” he murmurs as he notices a guy in a suit and sunglasses standing out in the crowd. The man puts a hand in his pocket, and Harry’s hand invariably jumps to his holster, hidden underneath his shirt. He pulls out a map, and Harry sighs.

 

He continues looking unabashedly as the man unfolds the map and turns around in a half-circle.

 

“Must be a tourist,” Harry says and leans back in his chair. His hand drops away from the hidden holster. The man, Harry observes, is handsome. He has dark hair that shines in the sun, glasses-covered eyes focused on the map, and long legs wrapped in dark trousers. He takes a half-circle turn again, going against the crowd, and Harry takes a moment to admire long, pale fingers clenched around the useless map.

 

The light turns from green to red, and there’s another influx of people crossing the road. The handsome man is not looking at his surroundings and stumbles as he is caught off-guard by the flood of people.

 

“Heh,” Harry chortles. His heart lightens, and he admires the view that is his handsome stranger scowling at the crowd. Even then, the man looks like a statue carved out of marble. The dark suit is fitting, showing off his broad shoulders, tall frame and elegant neck. The glasses are like a veil across that classically handsome face, and Harry can’t help but stare some more.

 

He looks at the way those brows frown in confusion. The way he stands so sure, so confident, even when it is evident that he is lost and doesn’t give up in the face of the adversity that is London prime-time crowd. Harry wishes for composure like that. For his handsome stranger’s composure and will. His face flushes even in the cool air of the cafe, and little-by-little, his heartbeat increases as he stares some more.

 

He is not sure how long he has been staring when he notices the man has wandered onto the very edge of the road. Harry stands abruptly, his drink forgotten, and rushes out of the door.

 

*********

 

Getting Potter’s address from the office of Underage Magic Usage is not difficult for Lord Voldemort. But finding the exact location _is_. He has been standing at the same crossroads for the past two hours, and he still doesn’t know which direction will take him to Privet Drive from the center of Little Whinging. The map wasn’t much help either.

 

He snarls as another Muggle collides with him and pushes his shoulder. Damn the Muggles and damn Harry Potter for putting him in this situation. The streets have changed since the last time he visited the Muggle world in 1948. There are new signs, new shops and exponentially more people. He should have just left this to his followers instead of adding his own personal touch.

 

He raises the map and compares the street names with those on the sign, ignoring the skeptical looks the Muggles send him, and takes another half-turn to orient himself. There is a loud horn and a rush of wind right next to him, and he stumbles back, colliding with the person standing behind him. The resulting reaction is a push, and Voldemort feels his ankle twisting and body giving in to gravity.

 

The humiliation is too much. He feels his eyes burning with rage, hands trembling with the itch to draw his wand and curse the Muggles to death for daring to make him fall.

 

A hand, upturned and calloused, enters his sight, and he stills. His anger turns to cold ice in his veins, and he slowly raises his gaze to look at the Muggle who has dared to offer a helping hand to Lord Voldemort. As if he is another of these helpless, dirty, magicless abominations!

 

Harry Potter stands there. He is bent low, one hand raised to offer him support and the other picking up the soiled map from the ground. Potter looks up, and Voldemort realizes belatedly that the tumble has caused his shades to be askew. He raises one hand swiftly to reposition the black frames and meets that green gaze steadily.

 

“Are you alright?” Potter asks him, smiling gently. It is that smile that lets him know that Potter has not seen his eyes and realized who he is. He ignores the offered hand and tries to stand up by himself, for Lord Voldemort does not need anyone’s help in getting onto his own feet.

 

His ankle bursts into pain, and he stumbles, catching the shoulders of the smaller body supporting him. The evidence of his weakness makes him flush in frustration. His fingernails dig deeper into the slim shoulders, and he raises his head to glare at the boy.

 

“Easy there. Slow and steady,” Potter says softly. His body shifts, and one of his arms moves under his own, across his shoulders to support the Dark Lord’s weight.

 

“I do not need your help,” Voldemort hisses, and Potter shakes his head.

 

“Come on, let’s move out of the traffic,” Potter says as he guides him away from the Muggle infestation towards a gazebo-covered seating area.

 

“I am not going to thank you for this,” Voldemort snarls. The pain is negligible, but the frustration due to this situation and the fact that it was _Potter_ of all people who came to his aid is the true insult upon the injury. At least it wasn’t a Muggle. He’d have culled the whole street of the vermin otherwise.

 

“That’s fine. I was not expecting one anyways.” Potter glances at him through his lashes, and Voldemort finds their proximity too unnerving. They reach the seating area, and Potter gently lowers him onto one of the plush chairs.

 

“Wait here. I’ll get some ice for that ankle,” Potter says as he straightens up.

 

“This is simply a minor inconvenience.” Voldemort refuses the aid and stares into wide green eyes through his shaded vision. “I do not require further assistance.”

 

“So, ice for that ankle first and directions for your destination later?” Potter raises a brow as he stares down at the Dark Lord. He nods, not unlike a Malfoy, seemingly coming to an unknown conclusion. “Stay here.” He turns without awaiting his response, and Voldemort stares after him.

 

Various scenarios pass through his mind, and he reaches under his jacket for the wand strapped to his vest. If this was a distraction and Potter has gone to notify the Order, then it’d behove him to be prepared to face any attack.

 

Minutes pass, and Potter comes out alone. He has an ice pack in his hand and a smile on his face. Green eyes shine bright as he comes to a stop in front of him.

 

“I hope it wasn’t too long,” Potter says, and he gets down on his knees. The sight transfixes the Dark Lord, and he takes in a long breath. How often has he dreamed about Potter kneeling in sweet defeat in front of him? How often has he wanted him to lower his eyes and kiss his feet?

 

And here it is, the culmination of his dreams. Simply because Potter has a soft heart and intends to tend to his injured foot. On his knees with eyes lowered, calloused hands gently remove his shoes and cleanse his feet. The picture evokes feelings he cannot yet name, and he bathes in the comfort they provide him. Those expressive eyes rise and meet his own in a silent question. Voldemort nods his assent. A hiss escapes his lips as the cold soothes his ache.

 

“Feels okay?” Potter asks, his one hand still gripping the ice pack on the swollen area while the other massages the balls of his foot. “Let me know if it gets uncomfortable.” Voldemort nods from his place, high above Potter’s sight and sighs when the pain recedes.

 

Silence falls upon them, filled with the loud din of the Muggle world as both wizards immerse themselves in their thoughts.

 

“So, what brings you here?” Potter attempts to make small talk, and Voldemort raises a brow at the question. “Just curious. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

 

“Ancestral Property.” Voldemort deigns to answer this harmless inquiry. His lip curls as an idea unfurls in his mind. “You offered me directions for my destination?”

 

“Yes.” Potter nods. He looks up, and green eyes squint in the stark light. “Shoot.”

 

“Pardon?” Voldemort asks. His body tenses as the word indicates Potter has uncovered something odd about him. Was that a signal for a watcher to shoot him?  
  
“I meant, ask away.” Potter smiles and shrugs. “Modern slang. Please ignore.”

 

“Very well.” Voldemort leans back and raises his chin. Even while injured, sitting on a dirty chair in a Muggle neighbourhood, he is still the King of his Court. “I’m seeking to visit Number 12, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.” For wouldn’t it be ironic if the Chosen One would direct him towards his home, just so Lord Voldemort can later kill him?

 

“You’re in luck. It’s near my place.” Potter looks back down, pressing the cold pack against his ankle. He hisses, for the movement this time was harsher than the previous one. A trick of his mind, he is sure, for Lord Voldemort is an excellent actor, and there is no way a Gryffindor can call his bluff. “We’ll set out as soon as you’re able to walk.”

 

“That is agreeable.” Voldemort nods. And so they wait in silence again.

 

After a while, the pain lessens, and Voldemort has recollected his bearing. He raises his leg, his toe below Potter’s chin, and pushes that face up to meet green eyes.

 

“The pain is negligible now. I’m ready to traverse the crowd to our goal,” he informs him, and Potter nods. He puts the socks on again, but the shoe of the injured foot is kept off. Potter’s hands linger in their touch even as he stands and dusts off his knees.

 

“Let’s go then. Lean on me for a bit? Till you get accustomed to the pain?” he offers, and Lord Voldemort graciously accepts.

 

They walk in silence, the Gryffindor gently but firmly guiding him through the gushing throng of Muggles. He holds his breath, wary of anyone colliding with him and humiliating him again. But Potter is skillful in his maneuvers and soon, they’re out of the crowd and in a less infested area.

 

“You looked a bit lost back there,” Potter says. Voldemort is sure this is because the Golden Boy cannot tolerate long silences in conversations. This is the third time he has started speaking just to fill in the silence in the past hour of their acquaintance. “Not used to crowds.”

 

“Yes,” he replies, determined to keep the conversation short. If only he wasn’t injured, he wouldn’t have gone along with this entire charade. He should have simply killed Potter back when they met, Muggles and Secrecy be damned. But he _is_ injured, and allowances must be made. For now, first priority is obtaining the exact location, and coming back for killing is for later.

 

“It’s very obvious.” Potter tries to keep the conversation flowing. “I noticed you stumbling around for quite a while back then.” Voldemort flushes at this reminder of the revelation of his weakness, and Potter continues on, as if he has not just insulted Lord Voldemort in 12 words.

 

“It is not my fault that these… _people_ walk around in groups. They push and pull at everyone in their haste and ignore the truly important details of life in their narrow mindedness,” Voldemort expounds to clarify his actions. Potter, like the Muggle-raised, ignorant sheep that he is, simply nods along. “There are simply too many of them.”

 

“Yes, that is true. But this is a problem that we all face world-wide. Too many people, too many details lost in life.” Potter gives a very Dumbledore-esque answer, and Voldemort rethinks his stance on drawing his wand to kill Potter on the spot. He manages to restrain himself. Barely.

 

“They’re everywhere! Like rabbits and rodents, pests and plague upon this world. Control is what is necessary to guide them towards a better world.” Voldemort does not know why, but he feels this need to explain his view to his nemesis. Potter turns and gives him an amused look.

 

“And who are you to control them?” he asks lightly. “Who are you to tell them how to live, what to eat, whom to marry and how many children to have?”

 

“Someone who knows better than them. Someone who is superior to them. Why shouldn’t I control them while they follow my orders?” Voldemort says, his words infused with self-righteousness for his cause.

 

“Oh.” Potter turns his head to look up at him and blinks in surprise. “So someone who knows better than the rest should be the one leading the herd?” He snorts and shakes his head, turning back to look ahead. “You remind me too much of an old professor of mine. He spoke and lived the Machiavellian philosophy and believed in empowering the few who knew the best over many. Coincidently, he included himself as one of the few who knew better than the best. Get my point?”

 

“I’m nothing like any old man!” Voldemort snarls, for he knows very well to whom Potter is comparing him. “I just believe that there are people who are born better than the rest, who know better than others and who deserve to be in power. It is these people in power whom the redundant public must bow and adhere to. As long as they believe in us, the ones in charge, they will be well taken care of.”

 

“The word for that is communism. You might have heard of it,” Potter says dryly. “Keep up with the times — political evolution says that the successor of communism is democratic socialism. The philosophy in itself may not work for a larger population model, but for a small, close-knit community? It might work just as well, if not better, than any other.” Voldemort looks at him, seeing _Harry Potter_ for the first time in his entirety.

 

“Communism is not the only ideology that fits my belief and with my… people.” He says, amused by the revelation of this new information. Harry Potter's words, while shallow, are different from the philosophy and actions of the now-deceased Albus Dumbledore, may he rot in his grave and maggots feast in the hollows of his eyes. “I’m more interested in authoritarianism. My… acquaintances are all traditional authoritarians.”

 

“Authoritarians?” Potter asks curiously. “Isn’t that when there is no rule of law, limited political freedom and something about ‘necessary evil’?”

 

“An acceptable summary,” Voldemort grants. Potter is, but a 16 year old boy. A more detailed conspectus on the subject was not expected. “But I abide by a traditional form. Are you familiar with the differences between a textbook authoritarian government and a traditional one?”

 

“The name makes me think it has something to do with maintaining traditions.” Potter hums as he thinks, a trait shared between them. However, he doesn’t offer any further elaboration, and Voldemort is tempted to educated his prophesied vanquisher how his ideology is superior to all else.

 

“The main definition,” he teaches primly, “is that a traditional authoritarian government is one in which the ruling authority, generally a single person, is maintained in power through a combination of appeals to traditional legitimacy, patron-client ties and repression, which is carried out by an apparatus bound to the ruling authority through personal loyalties."

 

“I didn’t get all of that, but from what I _did get_ , a traditional authoritarian government with _you_ as the leader, will enable you to force your ideals onto people.” Potter smiles wryly. “Just as your original plan, yes?”

 

“There is nothing wrong in seeking a revolution to obtain power and put yourself in charge.” Voldemort says indignantly. “I did point out previously that I believe myself to be the best person to lead this rabble to greatness.”

 

“Supporting traditional authoritarianism means you’re against communism. Now that is interesting,” Potter muses. “Don’t get me wrong; I’m very glad you’re not into communism. The main problem with both forms, I think, is corruption. The fact that authoritarianism has less people in power than communism, and thus less people who can be corrupted, makes it seem better.”

 

“Oh? How so?” Voldemort asks, intrigued. Clearly, the boy has a point to make here, and he is intrigued enough to oblige and ask the next question leading to whatever conclusion Potter is drawing to.

 

“Well, both forms give the people in power great liberty to use that power. The thing is, ‘With great Power, comes great responsibility’,” Potter says as if he’s quoting from somewhere, “but ‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely’. And there are very few people who’re strong enough to wield power responsibly without getting corrupted by it.”

 

“Ah, Lord Acton,” Voldemort nods, impressed by Potter’s point of contention. “However,” he counters, in a manner reminiscent to Potter’s previous query regarding his right to rule, “is it so wrong? You are ignoring the fact that power, of any sort, is a tool. Why should people in key positions not be given liberty to use it as they see fit? To not use power for fear of inadequacy or responsibility, is the height of stupidity, and ineptitude.” For while Albus Dumbledore may have been incompetent in such matters, Lord Voldemort is not. “Only a bad workman blames his tools. A _good_ workman can create a masterpiece with the very same,” he declares, for it is the obvious conclusion, as evidenced by the past 50 years of stagnation.

 

“Yes, but there are very few people in this world with a will strong enough to not fall prey to the temptation of power as a tool. Which is I why said that ‘With great power, comes great responsibility’. Power may be just a tool, but it is a tool to be used responsibly,” Potter points out. “Otherwise,” he adds wryly, “all that power can go to one’s head and give them ideas above their station.” Voldemort frowns thoughtfully. Yes, getting ideas above their station is a common problem among his followers. Both Lucius Malfoy and his dear Bella are the most recent victims to succumb to it. Perhaps there is some credit in reminding them of the responsibilities that come alongside their standings in his ranks.

 

“Your concerns are valid,” Voldemort says, tilting his head in concession. “But I must digress; I have not heard this quote before. It seems to imply that the people in power must take responsibility for their actions and subsequent results. May I ask for it’s origins?” Voldemort muses. He prides himself on his knowledge and yet, in 56 years as a human and 14 years as a warith, he never once came across this excerpt. Learning something new is always a delight, even if it is being taught by Dumbledore’s protégé.

 

“‘With great power, comes great responsibility’? You wouldn’t have.” Potter shifts uneasily. “Look, just ignore the source and think upon the words themselves. Don’t they have the same meaning as a noble’s obligation?”

 

“ _Noblesse Oblige,_ ” Voldemort nods. “That is true. An excellent way to rephrase the term. To elucidate, your quandary with communism and authoritarianism is their easily corruptible nature. Fair enough. However, what is it that you find so interesting about my favoring traditional authoritarianism?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Potter startles and his eyes unfocus as he recalls their previous thread of conversation. “The interesting fact is that you’re not into, erm, _total control_?” Potter looks at him questioningly, and Voldemort nods his acquiesce.

 

“Totalitarian is the word you’re looking for,” he says, and Potter nods as well.

 

“Right. You see, my school is located in a closed community. The people who govern the community are totalitarian. And fact is, totalitarianism is an extreme form of authoritarianism. Even one such as yourself” _—_ Potter looks at him pointedly — “who is into control to the extreme, is only concerned with political power and using that political power like a tool to improve society as a whole. You’re not concerned with the private life of anyone and are willing to allow the existence of social and economic institutions that are not under governmental control.”

 

“I’m only interested in power, not in good or evil.” Voldemort laughs softly. “And why would I want to infringe upon the private life of people? They’re responsible for themselves. As long as they hold their tongues, follow my orders and do not get caught, they can do whatever they like. Of course, if they _do_ get caught” — his lips rise in an evil smirk — “then their fate is in my hands. Fair, no?”

 

“Very liberal of you,” Potter replies wryly. “How astounding.”

 

“Quite.” Voldemort laughs out loud, his first real laugh since his resurrection and his heart warms at this easy banter they have established. If only Potter had submitted himself to the Dark Lord all those years ago, he could have had more than an hour or two of conversation. “What about you? You mentioned democratic socialism?”

 

“Yes.” Potter nods. “Democratic socialism. The key aspect being Democracy. You see, the two oldest forms of governance are monarchy and democracy. And amongst all three, democracy is the oldest and most successful model. It is the only form to survive, thrive and spread across the globe. Rome is the most successful example of democracy’s superiority over other forms.”

 

“But Rome fell too,” Voldemort points out. “It is a failed system. Democracy is an antiquated model, one which has far better replacements available for me to choose from.”

 

“In that case, name one country whose government lasted longer than Rome and whose leader died of old age or whose dynasty never changed. Because those two are the common problems faced by leaders of monarchies. Assassinations, change in ruling dynasties, so-called ‘willing’ abdications, conquest, annexations and someone more ‘powerful’ or ‘worthy’ taking over the power. Examples of this are Egypt, China and India,” Potter points out. Voldemort nods and concedes the point.

 

“Rome fell not because of democracy, but because it refused to change,” Potter continues. “And it is because I accept this change that I feel like the next step up would be democratic socialism.” Potter grins.

 

“You have a bright future in politics,” Voldemort muses. “Surely you’re thinking of pursuing a political career.”

 

“No, I am not,” Potter says. “I am aiming to go into law enforcement.”

 

“A waste of talent,” Voldemort proclaims, and Potter laughs.

 

“You are the only one who thinks so.” He smiles again and shakes his head. “The only reason I’m contemplating this path is because my parents were also law enforcement officers and my tenth year self-defense teacher said I would be good at it.”

 

Voldemort hums as he maps the Muggle school system year to the seven year Hogwarts system. Career Counselling is done during fifth year at Hogwarts, so it’d be eleventh year for the Muggle system.The only teacher who could have suggested law enforcement during Potter's fourth year would be… Barty. Something twists violently in his stomach, and Voldemort clenches his teeth as unreasonable animosity for Barty courses through his veins.

 

“In that case, let me be the first one to ask. What do you want to do for a job?” he asks, his voice low, trembling with suppressed emotions.

 

“I do not want to fight,” Potter replies slow and soft, as if sharing a secret. “I don’t know what, but I do know what not. And that is that I do not want to fight. Maybe fly or heal or go on an adventure?” He shakes his head. “Flying. Maybe I’ll become a pilot. Yes, becoming a pilot sounds like fun.”

 

“An excellent choice,” Voldemort declares. “Personally, I do not see any appeal in it, but it is a far better choice than law enforcement. It shall also result in you staying alive and unharmed longer than being an officer would,” Voldemort says and is surprised at the truthfulness of his words. Yes, Potter staying alive and unharmed seems to appeal to him more and more.

 

“Thanks.” His Chosen One looks surprised but a smile slowly spreads across his face. “You are not so bad yourself.” He tilts his head thoughtfully and asks, "What made you change your mind?”

 

“I like interesting people and interesting opinions. You are pleasing to look at and happen to have interesting opinions. To add to the mystery, you do not _appear_ to be someone who has interesting opinions.” Voldemort gives a very pointed once-over look at the boy dressed in ill-fitting clothes. His answer is a ringing laugh chiming in the air, and the arm around his torso tightens. The sound reverberates through his body even as the warmth of another body’s proximity seeps through his skin.

 

“My sixth grade social studies project,” his Chosen One replies when he manages to calm down. “As well as a statistical analysis of the rise and fall of governments across the world in the past 3000 years. And while Lenin isn’t a good place to start, it is certainly an interesting viewpoint to keep in mind while reading other works. I did my cousin’s work too. Immanuel Kant sure had some controversial opinions.”

 

“Oh? Then why not prove your point by an example and analysis?” the Dark Lord teases. “If you are convincing in your words and can propose a functional system of governance without any flaws, I might take your opinion into consideration.”

 

“As much as I would like to debate political ideology with you, we are here.” Harry stops in the midst of a dull neighbourhood. All the houses look the same, and Voldemort is again struck by the desire to burn down this drab blot upon the face of his country. “This quaint neighbourhood”—Voldemort snorts but let’s Harry continue uninterrupted—“is Privet Drive. This row” — he gestures and the Dark Lord’s gaze follows his actions — “is for number 1 through 10. The other,” — he raises a hand and points to the block on the other end — “is numbers 11 through 20. Number 12 is the second house on the block.”

 

“Very well.” Voldemort nods. He is not willing to end their conversation yet by any means. He wants to speak more with him, wants to spend more time together in the soft warmth contrasting so prettily with firm opinions. “Since we have reached our destination, and yet our dialogue is not over, we shall meet again tomorrow. Same time, same place. You will bring your books, your data, resources and analysis with you. And you will attempt to prove your point.” Because he is not yet ready to say goodbye and will take every chance he has to drag their time together as long as possible. Only till he has drawn back every layer and devoured all secrets from his Chosen One’s heart and mind. Then and only then will he allow them to part ways.

 

His words have their desired effect, for his Chosen One startles and stares at him like he should have from the beginning, all those years ago. Wide-eyed, full of wonder, hope and gazing upon the Dark Lord like his very own salvation. He feels himself preening under the admiring attention. His heart beats faster, and a lazy smile lifts the corner of his lips.

 

“Sure.” Harry nods emphatically, green eyes never leaving his own. “I will be there. And you promise to consider my words if my points are reasonable?”

 

“I never go back on my word,” Voldemort promises. He raises a hand and brushes it gently across the soft skin of his cheek. Flesh that was forbidden to him until now warms under his touch as a soft red graces his Chosen One’s cheeks. “You have one chance. I do not provide anyone with one chance, let alone a second. Be gracious and do not disappoint me. Remember to not waste it, Potter,” he says and disentangles himself from the boy. The loss of warmth is immediate and he is struck by the visceral need to pull the boy closer again and this time, never let him go.

 

His Chosen One smiles brightly and bends down on his knee again, offering the shoe he has held in one hand. Voldemort acquiesces and places his hands on narrow shoulders to support his weight. He gingerly inserts his foot in the contraption, even as Harry holds it out for him. Green eyes rise to gaze upon him in query, and Voldemort lets go of his support.

 

He softly places his foot on the ground and smiles when the only result is a dull throb. The pain is well and truly gone now, and he has even had an interesting conversation to pass the time. A day well spent in his opinion.

 

“Do you want me to help you to the door?” Harry asks as he stands back up, his eyes shining even as his cheeks lose the flush. His voice is teasing even as his face conveys the utmost sincerity.

 

“I do not require further assistance,” he replies curtly. The boy’s face falls, disappointed. Voldemort hastily adds on in a soft voice, “We shall meet tomorrow. Be on time.” He walks away with a slow and steady pace. He feels Harry’s gaze on him linger even as he turns a corner and the house blocks his body from view. He takes out his wand, casts a Notice-Me-Not and Apparates away.

 

**********

 

Harry sighs, still in shock as the man known as the Dark Lord Voldemort walks away from his sight. The whole evening has been bizarre from start till the end, and he is still not certain whether he is dreaming or Confunded.

 

For surely, the man he has ogled and mentally undressed for two hours while sitting and sipping cold brew can not be the Dark Lord Voldemort. He is sure the red eyes underneath those shaded glasses he glanced under while offering a hand to the man did not belong to Voldemort. He’ll simply ignore the fact the man slipped up there at the end and called him ‘Potter’. Yes, treating this as a random man with partial albinism seems like the best bet for his sanity.

 

No. He shakes his head and decides he cannot do this in good conscience. For if that really was Voldemort he just spent two hours gazing, one hour helping and another hour escorting, then this is the chance of a lifetime. The opportunity to finish this war before it has really taken off. To convince him by words instead of duels. And if all it takes is brushing up on the Social Studies projects he does for Dudley every summer, then he’ll do that. It is very lucky, indeed, that Dudley still forces him to do his homework over the summers.

 

If that really was Voldemort, then it would be the height of stupidity to go meet him alone, or without backup. To maintain the illusion that he doesn’t know he has just escorted Voldemort to his home, Harry will need to meet him alone. So, backup it is.

 

He makes his way back from Wisteria Lane to Privet Drive in a daze. Thankfully, Dudley is the first person he encounters in the house.

 

“Hey, Dudley,” Harry says as he enters the kitchen. The blonde boy is noticeably less like a pig in a wig and more in shape than the previous summer. He slides past him and gets a snack from the fridge. Dudley stares at him all the while but doesn’t stop him or threaten to tell on him to Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. “I want copies of those social studies summer homework I did for you till now,” he continues as he gets some more fruit to eat later in his room. “Your text-books too, for that matter.”

 

“Why?” Dudley asks but does not say anything when Harry continues to gather more food from around the kitchen.

 

“I met an old professor from my school, and he’s interested in non-magic people’s thoughts on their society and history.” Harry makes something up, something that sounds complex and remotely uninteresting to Dudley. It works, for Dudley nods and goes to his room to fetch the copies for him without any more questions. He is surprised at his cousin’s easy compliance, but he puts it down as character growth. Dudley can’t be a snobbish bully all his life, can he?   

 

Harry manages to take all his food to his room before Dudley hands over the notes with a grunt and leaves without ever pushing or shoving him against the walls once. Harry can’t help his relief. He pens a quick letter to Ron explaining the main points of today’s encounter and sends it off. With this, he has only one thing left to do: call Hermione.

 

Convincing Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon to allow him a long conversation with a friend is pretty easy when he reminds them of having saved Dudley’s life in the summer before fifth year. A hint of a potential life-debt Dudley might owe him, and Aunt Petunia very enthusiastically gives him permission.

 

“So, Hermione,” Harry says on call with his best friend. “Remember all those times you helped me with Dudley’s summer homework? Helping me get references so Dudley’s assignments were done to the level of Uncle Vernon’s satisfaction? Giving examples to make me understand all those authors like Kant and Lenin and Marx? And when you forced me to do the Social Studies revision to help you prepare for your A-levels? Because you felt like I had a knack for it, and it would be a damn shame if I never learnt more? And when I told you to bugger off because I would never use any of it in the Wizarding World? That I only need to know enough to complete Dudley’s homework?”

 

“Get to the point, Harry.” Hermione sighs over the phone. She is very well aware of his habit of rambling when he wants to avoid discussing something.

 

“Well, I was wrong,” he admits, “and you were right. I did need that information today. And I don’t know what I would have done if not for you. Thank you, Hermione. You’re a literal life-saver.”

 

“Of course I was right,” Hermione says smugly. “I am rarely, if ever, wrong. But more details would be appreciated.”

 

“You wouldn’t believe what happened today.” Harry swallows before launching into an explanation of his encounter with a gratuitously hot Voldemort. “I was doing my best to bluff during that conversation. I am not sure how much I succeeded in making it seem like I knew what I was talking about.”

 

“But Harry!” she protests, “This is most likely a trap. You cannot meet him there. Not alone like you’re planning to. Let me contact the Order. This is the best chance we have to ambush You-Know-Who himself! We know where he is and when he’s going to be there. There’re so many ways we can take advantage of this!”

 

“And I know, ‘Mione, that going there tomorrow is nothing but stupid. But don’t you see?” he pleads, “This is the best chance we have of convincing him to back off. We can end this war without any bloodshed and without any grand Horcrux hunt. He promised, ‘Mione. He promised! And you know he keeps his promises.”

 

“Your words are not filling me with any sort of confidence regarding your own safety!” Hermione temporized. “He only promised to ‘take your words into consideration’. He did not say he’ll change his policies or stop the war. And he has said nothing about your own safety for tomorrow. This is too risky, and I won’t allow it!”

 

“I felt like he enjoyed talking to me today,” he confides softly. “I liked it too. And that is why I think that I don’t need to worry about my safety. He doesn’t even know that I know it’s him. Hermione, please. I need you to support me in this.”

 

“You barely managed to not screw up today’s conversation. What’s to say you’ll manage to keep it up tomorrow too?” she protests, and Harry smiles. He knows that he has her. Just one more push…

 

“Then,” he cheerfully declares, smiling, “I’ll just say what I think my ‘Mione will say. I quoted you word-by-word at least thrice today.”

 

“Harry!” she laughs, and Harry knows he has convinced her. “Alright! You win. But you’re still not going there alone.”

 

“Which is why I called you,” Harry counters. “I have Dudley’s notes and textbooks, and you can help me prepare for tomorrow. And when the time comes, you can come along to keep a discreet eye on our conversation too. Just come in a Muggle disguise and hide in a crowded section of the cafe.” He lowers his voice as he informs her. “Voldemort isn’t very good with crowds. Did I mention he stumbled around with a map at an intersection for two hours?”

 

“No you didn’t,” Hermione laughs again. “I don’t believe this.”

 

“It’s true. He even fell down because he got too close to the road and someone shoved him a little. He got all red faced ‘cause of it. He was adorable,” he confides, and Hermione chokes on the other end.

 

“Harry!” She sounds mortified. “This is You-Know-Who you’re talking about here.”

 

“I didn’t know that then, did I?” Harry snaps. “I know it’s Voldemort, but even that doesn’t change the fact that he’s adorable. All huffed up and intellectual and so prissy even when I’m the one helping him. I’m not blind, ‘Mione. He may be a Dark Lord, but he’s a hot Dark Lord. I thought his 16-year-old Diary self was hot even as a prepubescent 12 year old.” He takes in a deep breath and sighs.

 

“You have it bad, huh?” She teases. “But physical attraction is no reason to charge headfirst into danger.”

 

“Look at it this way, Hermione. This is a one-in-a-million chance for us. His looks aside, he was very much sane by all appearances. He’s willing to listen to me if I give him valid examples and provide data backing up my claims. We can convince him, then get him to sign a magically binding treaty. No need to go on a mad Horcrux hunt. We can even go back to Hogwarts for our N.E.W.T’s,” he says, hoping Hermione’s single-minded dedication to her education will work out in his favor here.

 

“Are you trying to bribe me, Harry?” Hermione snaps. “My N.E.W.T's can't be bought at the cost of your life.”

 

“You're missing my point. We’re not even 17 yet!” His voice turns hysterical as he remembers a similar conversation he, Hermione and Ron had after Dumbledore’s funeral. “You’re the one who told me that, ‘Mione! ‘Underage children shouldn’t have to become exiles and go on Horcrux hunts alone’! If Voldemort kept one of his Horcruxes in the middle of a lake surrounded by Inferi, then maybe one of the others would be in Gringotts! I don’t want to do it!” His voice breaks as he admits his uncertainty to his friends for the first time, and he continues before he can lose his nerve. “You know the prophecy. One of us has to die in the end. And be honest, ‘Mione, who is the one more likely to die between me and the most powerful Dark Lord of the century? Because even if we destroy the Horcrux, it still falls on me to duel him to Death.”

 

“Oh Harry.” Hermione says softly. “You’re not alone. We won’t let you die.” She takes a deep breath and exhales shakily. “I will help you prepare. We have an entire night between today and tomorrow. By the time I’m done, no one will ever doubt you’re not a political genius. Let’s knock Voldemort off his feet and make him see our way.”

 

“Thanks, ‘Mione. What would I ever do without you?” he teases, his voice dry from the earlier bout of hysteria.

 

“Get killed messily, that’s what,” she teases back, and Harry laughs.

 

The resulting talk is more Hermione talking and Harry noting down points and references. It takes a long while before they settle upon an outline for a presentation of key points, examples and models for their suggestion. It is 3 AM by the time they’re done, and Harry collapses on his bed. His thoughts go back to Voldemort, and he feels the hot blush over his face.

 

“This is so not fair.” He buries his face in his pillow and curls up on his bed. “This just isn't fair that I have an instant '2-minute crush' on Voldemort,” he shouts in the pillow and then throws it away in frustration. “He shouldn’t look as good as he does in black suits and sunglasses. He shouldn’t be so confident and cute in his self-absorption. He’s a murderous bastard, and he shouldn’t be the only one in the world to ask my opinion,” he whispers in defeat as he recalls how Voldemort had taken his ramblings seriously.

 

Voldemort is the only one to have done so. No one, not the Dursleys, not his Muggle school teachers, not his classmates nor his housemates at Hogwarts, not his professors nor his friends have ever done that. It all either goes in one ear and out the other, or they would pat him on the head and offer him a biscuit for his imaginary problems. And that happens during the time people aren’t busy accusing him of being a murdering liar.

 

He sighs and closes his eyes, trying and failing in not thinking about either Voldemort, the war, or his meeting tomorrow.

 

***********

 

Their next meeting at the cafe goes well, and Harry is incredibly surprised when Voldemort offers an invitation for ‘further discourse’. The fact that any future meetings are held in candle-lit restaurants and accompanied by long walks in scenic gardens is never brought up between the two. The war is resolved by a signed treaty detailing acceptable policies, restrictions and punishments. There is no Horcrux hunt, no mass murders, and Harry and his friends are able to return to Hogwarts peacefully. Their last year is wonderfully accident-free.

 

Hermione graduates and gets an intern position in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

 

Ron becomes a trainee Auror.

 

Harry joins the Quidditch League as a Seeker and retires after a few years when the popularity gets too much for him. To Ron and Hermione’s wry amusement, he immediately gets an offer from Voldemort for the position of Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

 

“Shouldn’t I start as an intern?” Harry asks during another one of their dinner dates, which Voldemort insists is nothing more than a ‘political discourse’. After 10 years of such ‘discourses’, he is not sure whom he believes he is fooling with that excuse anymore.

 

“Starting as an intern is only for people who have no connections,” Voldemort informs him, as he fills Harry’s wine glass again. “You, on the other hand, know the Minister personally. And the Minister has offered you this position directly. Why not take advantage of it? Being closer to the man in charge of this country, who is the single most powerful wizard in the world, will surely help you influence his decisions and direct his policies to your liking.”

 

“The Minister has not ‘offered me this position directly’. He sent me an owl telling me to make myself available next Monday at 8AM. That is not how one makes an offer, Mister Minister,” Harry teases as he slices his Treacle Tart. “Besides, referring to yourself in the third person? Extolling your own virtues? Someone is trying too hard here.”

 

“Yes, yes. Forgive me for wanting to use any reason to have you closer,” Voldemort says, and Harry’s heart skips a beat. Even after so many years, the Dark Lord’s casual admittance of his  feelings, disguised as nothing more than friendly banter, still catches him by surprise. “I concede that I should have asked you personally rather than send an owl. Nevertheless, let me ask again. Will you join me and share in my power to help shape the future of Wizarding Britain?

 

“I’m not interested in politics. You know that,” Harry refutes. “I have told you so repeatedly for the past five years. Why even bother asking?”

 

“I see,” Voldemort sighs. “It was presumptuous of me to think you’d return my affections and accept my extension of an olive branch as the first step in our new relations.”

 

“New relations?” Harry pauses and looks over in surprise, blushing at this new found directness. “Your… affections?”

 

“Yes. I am fond of you, Harry. More than fond. I waited 10 years for you to live your dream. You wanted a career as a ‘Pilot’.” Harry smiles at the reminder of that walk, long ago, when his prophesied enemy forced him to face his own thoughts and accept himself as he is, not what others want him to be. Voldemort’s eyes soften when they notice his smile and the next words are spoken soft and slow. “I let you have it. The Dark Lord Voldemort being your husband would not have helped matters. But you’re retired now, and I can finally make my intentions known. As such, sharing my dreams and aspirations with you to achieve a workable compromise is the first step. Next will, of course, be living together.”

 

“Husband? Li—Living together? Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” Harry asks, startled. His knife drops to his plate with a cling as he stares at the him in shock. Surely, after a decade of waiting, Voldemort couldn’t possibly be making a move _now_? Not after Harry has resigned himself to suffering through a life-long ‘unofficial’ relationship.

 

“And,” Voldemort continues as if he has not noticed Harry’s surprise, “if we find ourselves compatible after sharing a house and a bed, we can move to a Bonding next. I trust that this is acceptable.”

 

It is not a surprise to anyone when Harry accepts the offer without a second thought.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are always welcome ~


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